Eggs, Well Done

She was there again, leaning with each arm draped over the carved wood door frame and the puce and lime green wallpapered walls. Achromatic hair tied tightly into a nest of black steel hair pins, each roll well-placed, a manicured perm of transcendence. Her face, crumpled and crimped, lights up the room with its fiercely-driven marks of amethyst and henna. Her eyes of steel gray are half open, glinting in the overhead diner lights and she looks forward and meets my eyes. I imagine her sanguine lips meeting mine, our teeth clattering in the lawless pursuit of pent up passion now released. Her milky breasts will falter and strain against the worn fabric of her over-sized brassiere and we will throw caution to the wind as our hips pop and diner customers run wildly out the door, hands over their mouths. The rolls of our flesh will intertwine and for that timeless moment, our bodies will become enmeshed in olfactory inquisitions of Dove roll-on deodorant, Old Spice cologne and baby powder. We will laugh as our teeth fall out to the grimy tiles below and we gum each other into eternity. Her figure is perfectly imperfect, her every move sensually slow and wizened. Our endless times alone will come to pass and all the singular moments of watching cars out the window and sleeping and eating alone will melt away in the presence of two. Her warm fingers will trace my body, along my jaw line, on the edges of my cheek and ear. In her ears I will whisper notes of longing and long-awaited love and she will quiver. Fully embraced, the world will cease to exist and time, for all of its menacing faces, will simply cease. The eternal through embrace, the eternal through love. She puts her arms to her side, still watching me, and takes uneven steps using the backs of the booths for balance as she approaches. “The hunt is on,” I tell myself and with a swig of OJ, I take my pills in anticipation for what is to come.